


Over and Out

by YvonneSilver



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-20 03:33:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2413436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvonneSilver/pseuds/YvonneSilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the zombie-apocalypse strikes, 007 and Q are separated. Though Bond's first instinct is to rush to HQ, Q insists that he doesn't need rescuing and refuses to let him go on such a suicide mission. But how long can they each hold off the encroaching zombies?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to tumblr-user exploding-pens for providing the prompt for this piece. I'm afraid I completely disregarded most of it, but it was inspiring none-the-less.

          The phone buzzed for the fifth time that morning and this time, Bond had had enough. He should’ve turned the damn thing off to begin with. But who would be callous enough to call him after an assignment? After a month of sleepless nights he deserved at least 18 hours of sleep and then 48 hours to recover before anyone should think of contacting him again. He rolled over and grabbed the phone just as it stopped buzzing. He squinted at the bright screen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his free hand. Five missed calls, all from HQ. What was going on there? The phone hummed again, an incoming text. Apparently they’d even left a voicemail. Bond rolled onto his back as he dialled his provider.

          A cool female voice prefaced the message. “You have one new message. Received: today at 9:15 am.” Bond rubbed his tired eyes. The next instant, the panicked voice of Q had him sitting at attention. “For god’s sake James, pick up the bloody phone!” In the background he could hear a flurry of sound as his quartermaster took a deep breath. “Okay. Listen. Lock your door. Keep your curtains drawn. And whatever you do, don’t make any noise. Oh and for god’s sake, don’t go outside until I’ve contacted you.” A loud crash interrupted. “AH. I believe my assistance is needed. I’ll call you. Stay out of sight!”

          The agent ruffled through his hair, listening to the automated voice listing his options. “Press 1 to repeat the message. Press 2 to delete…” This had to be some kind of prank, right? That would be just like that cheeky kid, calling him up this early in the morning to get a rise out of him. Yet somewhere, he knew that Q would never break his post-assignment recuperation ritual. He pressed 1, listening to the panic in that so familiar voice. Okay. Not a practical joke. At the end of the message he impatiently pressed 1 again, this time focusing on the background noise. The more he heard, the more it sounded like there was a fight going on. There were screams, and at one point the sound of breaking glass. The loud crash at the end of the message sounded like a door being broken down.

          Stay out of sight, Q had said. Bugger that. He fished a pair of trousers off the floor and shrugged on a shirt. He was halfway across the room when the phone buzzed again. He was caught for a moment between his decisive action to leave the house and the possibility that that was Q calling him again. Then in two quick strides he was beside his bed again, phone in hand.

          "Q? What in hell’s name is going on?"  
          "You were about to leave the house weren’t you?"  
          Bond hesitated. He could practically hear Q’s stern look. “No. Where are you?”  
          "Take a breath Bond. I’m fine. It appears the situation is under control for now."  
          "Q." The agent spoke slowly, stressing each word. "What’s going on?"  
          "There appears to be an outbreak of some kind. It could be mass hysteria, or a virus, but something is afoot. HQ was almost overrun by a mob of them."  
          Bond stood up and began pacing. “Right, I’m coming to get you.”  
          "That’s a negative double-oh-seven. We’re fine here for now, we’ve barricaded ourselves in. Bio-division is already working on identifying the cause, and we don’t need you charging in here like a bull in a china shop."  
          Bond snorted.  
          “I’m serious Bond. It seems like there’s a concentration of the infected here, so breaking us out isn’t an option at the moment. You know there’s no way they’re going to break into the lower levels, not with our security systems. Don’t get yourself killed on some pointless kamikaze action to get in here.”  
          “Fine.” Bond answered curtly.  
          "Look, the power is down, and it appears the noise of the generator attracts the infected, so we’re going to have to work old-school until we can get outside to reconnect the solar panels. You’ve still got your radio? If I need you again, I’ll contact you on channel 2. For now, your orders are to wait for your next assignment." He was quiet for a moment, then added, as if in afterthought. "Don’t get infected."  
          The agent smiled ruefully. "Take care of yourself kid."


	2. The little black box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though separated, Bond and Q keep contact through the radio.

          Of course Q knew better than to expect Bond to stay put. Orders or no orders something was happening to the city, to _his_ city, and he was damn well going to find out what it was. With none of the higher-ups left, Bond designed his own missions - building up a stock of supplies, looking for survivors, gathering more information on the diseased.

          When he was home, he talked to Q. Well, more like Q talked to him. He told him about the survivors in HQ basements. He explained what the scientists were finding out about the infected. Whenever he fell silent, Bond would give the receiver a squeeze to indicate he was still there, but he never said much himself. How could he? How could he explain the emptiness that had settled over London, how eerily quiet the streets had become. The virus, the parasite, whatever it was, must’ve spread like wildfire in the densely populated city. Did Q really need to know about the stench of decay that had begun to permeate the air? Bond had yet to find a single healthy survivor, but he’d already seen plenty of bodies of those who hadn’t survived the infection.

          As for those who had survived he infection, he wasn’t sure he even had the words to explain them. Q did. "The parasite burrows into the brain and scrambles the prefrontal cortex." But those didn't do justice to the atrocity of seeing them shambling down the streets. Like slowly decomposing robots, blind, purposeless. Yet that wasn't even the worst part. What was worse was when they were triggered. Bond ran into a group of them on the second day.  
          Q had been right, they were attracted by sound, and that was also how Bond found them. A clanking noise that echoed down the streets led him to an open square. He found a vantage point on one of the buildings nearby, where he watched them from a safe distance.  
          Around a flagpole that was the source of the noise, a group of around fifteen of them were gathered. A snarling mess of people, all trying to get to the centre of the circle, growling and biting at each other. One of them fell and was trampled immediately by the others. They kept pushing forward until one of them accidentally pulled the rope free and the clanking stopped. For a moment, they all stood silently. One of them emitted a low moan. Then slowly, they began to disperse, shambling off into different directions. 

          He knew Q wasn't telling him everything either. He categorically refused to answer Bond’s questions about his provisions, how many survivors there were, whether there were any wounded. His stories were always vague, never mentioned anyone by name. As the days passed, Q’s chipper tone seemed more and more forced. He said the researchers had stopped looking for a cure and started looking for a vaccine. The next day, they moved on to finding a weapon.

         Still, he kept rebuffing Bond when he tried to insist on coming over. “Just give them a little more time, James. I don’t want you hurt.” After which he’d bring up a story about one mission or another where the agent had rushed in too fast and only escaped by the skin of his teeth. So they just talked. And for a while, that was good enough.


	3. Radio silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q runs into trouble

          It happened a little over a week after the first incident, early in the morning. Bond was out, searching for survivors, exploring the lower city, gathering supplies. At first he’d taken the radio with him wherever he went, but once Q had radioed in just as he was sneaking up on a shambler, as he had started calling them, blowing his cover and almost getting him bitten. Since then, he’d left the radio behind. The radio stood quietly on the bedside table, awaiting his return, and he didn’t hear Q radioing in.

          "Bond. Bond, are you there?" Q’s lonely voice asked the empty apartment. The little radio was silent for a couple of seconds. "Come in, 007." It commanded, more urgently this time. The silence stretched on a little longer. "James please respond." Q pleaded, desperation sneaking into his voice. The silence held for the longest period yet. Nothing moved in the darkened apartment. Finally the radio clicked again, and Q’s voice filtered through in a forced monotone. “James. I don’t know if you’re out there. I hope this message reaches you. We’ve been compromised. I managed to get out. I don’t think any of the others made it.” The radio clicked again as Q steadied himself.  
          “I’m up on the roof. I climbed up to the roof. I’ll never complain about your work-outs again, I think they just saved my life.” The silence begs for an answer. Please. A laugh. An I told you so. Please let me know you’re listening to me. “But... uh.” The radio hissed as Q swallowed down the lump in his throat. “They know I’m up here. I can hear them shuffling behind the door. James, I don’t think I’m getting out of this one.” The radio hissed for a long time before it clicked off again.  
          Suddenly, it burst out. “Goddammit James, where are you!” Q’s voice is thick with tears as he rails against the empty room. “You just had to go off and be the hero again, didn’t you. You just had to head off into the night the way you always do. Couldn’t you just once, just this once, stay behind for me.” The radio’s static almost masked the quartermaster’s desperate sobs. “Please don’t be dead.” Q whispered. He slowly regained himself, and with his next statement he was almost joking. “You know, if you’ve gone and get infected I’m going to kill you.” He sniffed. “But that would be just like you agents, wouldn’t it. Mindless little drones.” He allowed a silence to fall again. “C’mon James. Rise to the bait. You know you want to.” He sighed heavily. “I know one thing. I’m not letting them take me alive. I refuse to serve as a mindless host to some invisible parasite.”

          The first rays of sunshine filtered through the dusty curtains. Two blocks away, Bond had tracked down the two infected he’d been following that night. He unsheathed his hunting knife.  
           Back in the apartment, Q's quiet voice drifted out of the radio. “The sunrise is actually rather pretty from up here. Not that you’d appreciate it, you uncultured lout.” Q’s soft laugh was smothered by a quiet sob. The radio was silent again as he pulled himself together. When it crackled back to life, Q’s voice still wasn’t completely steady. “I’m scared James. They're coming.” A loud thump sounded in the background, followed one last time by Q's shaky voice. "I think I have to go." Then the radio went quiet.


	4. The final mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 007 throws caution to the wind and sets out to rescue his quartermaster.

          The crack of the gun echoed loudly in the empty street. The figure at the end of the street crumpled as Bond leant the long barrel against his shoulder. He’d almost forgotten how satisfying the sound of a shotgun could be, how familiar the weapon lay in his hand, an extension of his thoughts. They’d be on him pretty soon now for sure, he had to keep moving. Yet every shambler that was attracted here would be one less monster at HQ. If he could get rid of all of them, maybe Q could get away. If he wasn’t gone already – a small voice in the back of his mind whispered. He shook his head stubbornly, clenching his jaw. Q hadn’t been turned. Not that wiseacre. No way.

          He hadn’t heard anything from his quartermaster for more than 24 hours. Something was up, and he was going to find out what. He continued down the street, sticking to the shadows – a  force of habit, since the shamblers didn’t really rely on sight. Q had said something about damaged optic nerves. Kid couldn’t speak normal English if his life depended on it, Bond thought huffily.

          He approached the last building on Grosvenor road, where he ducked off the sidewalk and underneath its awning. He was almost there, when he rounded the corner he should be able to see headquarters. He’d just have to cross the Thames and he’d be back. Q would be inside there, waiting for him. He’d be pissed as all hell that Bond had risked the trek across town to reach him, but it would be worth it just to see that pouty thing he did when he was annoyed.

          The agent grasped his shotgun firmly, and turned the corner. The sight in front of him froze him in his tracks. He breathed a single word. “Fuck.” Now he knew why Q hadn’t wanted him to come. He hadn’t been kidding when he said the place had been overrun. The bridge was swarmed with infected. Where the streets of the city had been eerily empty, here were hundreds of people, milling around aimlessly, attracted by some unknown force.

          Bond hurried back around the corner. He closed his eyes and pressed his back against the cool glass windows of the empty building behind him, where he sank down slowly until he was sitting on his haunches. He leant his head back against the wall. “Fuck.” He whispered again. There were too many of them, he knew. The parasite wasn’t smart enough to make its host feed. After a week of infection, most of the shamblers would be weak – skin over bones. But strength didn’t matter against sheer force of numbers. He would have to lure them away. A big explosion somewhere, something with a lot of noise to draw them out. If only he had the time.

          Opening his eyes, he reached for the radio at his belt. “Q, you’d better radio in right now, or so help me I’m going to do something very stupid.” So no change there then. He could almost hear Q say it. But almost wasn’t good enough. The little black box remained stubbornly silent. “Okay. Something stupid it is.” Bond said to himself, hooking the radio to his belt again. He reloaded his shotgun, and checked if his secondary weapons were still in place. Taking a final deep breath, he stepped out into the road.

         The plan went surprisingly well. Moving as slowly and quietly as he could make himself go, he manoeuvred between the shamblers. He was almost a third of the way across the bride before it fell to pieces. He was surrounded by softly moaning infected, when a bony hand closed on his upper arm, and in a reflex he jammed the butt of his shotgun behind him. The weapon connected with a shambler’s nose with a loud crack, sending it reeling backwards. Unfortunately, the others heard the commotion, and began closing in.

         His options limited, Bond set off at a sprint, pushing his way through the steadily thickening crowd. A large red tourists bus loomed ahead. He turned, fired a shot, and set off again at a mad dash. The infected were everywhere, hands reaching out to him. He fired his second casing at a petite woman in a flowery dress blocking his way to the bus. Without a second thought, he stepped over her, clambered into the bus, and slammed the doors shut.

         He jammed the shotgun between the bars, blocking the door. The damned thing was a pain to reload anyway, and this would buy him some time. He stomped down the length of the bus and hurried up the stairs in the back, his trusty Walther already in hand. He surveyed his position from the roof. Already, the shamblers were converging on the bus, but luckily none of them had the wits to climb the thing.

          Across the bridge, headquarters contrasted darkly against the rising sun. He squinted, trying to make out details, broken windows, marred walls, any outward signs or the duress Q had said they’d been under. Was there something walking on one of the levels of the terraced building? He couldn’t say for sure from here. He had to find a way to get there. He was stranded about halfway across the bridge. The stealthy technique wouldn’t do him any favours apparently. He needed a new plan. Quickly.

         He stalked up and down the length of the bus, looking for something he could use. At the end of his third pass, he suddenly stopped in his tracks. He’d seen something, across the far end of the bridge, but his eyes were refusing to deliver the message. A stocky figure with short grey hair, still in her suit but barefoot. M.

         Bond grabbed hold of one of the chairs beside him, gripping the back so hard his knuckles whitened. No. Not her. A person he’d taken orders from, respected, and maybe even trusted. And this, this _disease_ had taken her too? No.

         He felt a strange sort of calm settle over him. Slowly, he took his weapon from his holster, and retrieved his back-up from where he’d strapped it to his leg. They were going to pay for this. They were all going to pay for this.

         He looked over the edge of the bus, assessing the drop. He braced himself, sprinted down the length of the bus before jumping off the front. He crashed loudly on the bonnet, which buckled under his wait. In a single fluid movement, he rolled off the bus’s front and before he’d even properly landed on his feet he’d gotten his first shot off.

         The infected were really swarming him now, but he didn’t take the time to assess his situation. All his senses were in hyperdrive, and it seemed that everything had a clarity he’d never had before. Each shot hit home, sending another body crumpling to the ground to be trampled by the advancing crowd.

         When his side-arm emptied, he flipped it over and used it as a club. He struck an oncoming shambler in the head with the handle, hearing the sickening crunch of breaking bone. He kept pressing forward until he reached the edge of the bridge. Once there, he flung his side-arm aside and hoisted himself unto the iron boxes that were set in the bridge’s railing. From his heightened vantage point, he emptied his chamber into the mass clawing at his feet.

         That’s when he saw her again, blind eyes staring up at him as she clawed through the crowd and it finally hit home. What if M wasn’t the only one? What if Q? He couldn’t formulate the whole thought. He hadn’t answered the radio. What if he was out there, another mindless zombie, unseeing eyes behind skewed glasses. He couldn’t face that.

         Something grabbed at his ankles. He kicked it away on instinct, but his heart wasn’t in it. He hardly saw the carnage in front of him. He thought about the river behind him. Q was gone. He couldn’t save him. If he couldn’t save him, what was the point? He closed his eyes and fell.


End file.
